


Keep to Catch, Catch to Keep

by akaVertigo



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Animals, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-17
Updated: 2011-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaVertigo/pseuds/akaVertigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Allison has her first hunt Kris sulks throughout the whole night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep to Catch, Catch to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> Written for "Toys" month at [Kradamadness](http://kradamadness.dreamwidth.org). Includes horrifically incorrect interpretation of zoological information for the purposes of unrepentant cuteness.

  
**xXx xXx**   


When Allison has her first hunt Kris sulks throughout the whole night.

It's not because he's upset with her heading out. More wolves out in the woods means more meat, more stories, more strength flowing into the pack as a whole. It means full bellies and good dreams. It means healthy pups. It meant safety.

(Safety means a lot to Kris.)

It's not because he's worried about Allison going, either. She may be younger and not all that much bigger than Kris (to be fair, what _isn't_ ) but she's fast and she's clever; whether it's trouble or an opportunity, Allison is sure to be in the lead in recognizing either. The point is she can take care of herself—and the pack.

The problem is—so can Kris.

Ever since the leaves changed, the two of them have been rolling and wrestling with the excitement of trying their teeth in a real hunt. They've play with the heady thought of it boiling their blood, tussling until Lil trots out and forcibly herds them into the den. Even then there would still be a chance to scuffle in a dark corner, taking turns in pretending to be breakfast. Kris, for example, makes a very convincing jackrabbit.

When the decision to let younger pups out _finally_ arrives—with a nod from Simon but, really, what else is needed?—it's like getting a chance to bite the moon; Allison and he nearly snap each other's tail off in anticipation. When the light turns and the pack heads out, they race forward like a pair of storm clouds. Allison makes it out first. Kris—

Well, that's where it gets...odd.

At first he's honestly confused at what happens. Legs? Moving. Tail? Bushy. Nose? Eager. Then he looks down and oh, hey, hello, ground, what are you doing all the way down there?

It's no less confusing when Adam sets him back down.

Butt in the dirt, Kris tilts his head, eyes shut in automatic bliss when Adam's familiar scent nuzzles his face. He pops back on his feet and waits for the wolf to pass. Obviously, he's meant to _follow_ Adam. The excitement got Kris a little disoriented, is all. Once Adam is outside, Kris darts after. This is going to be _awesome_.

And it is—for about a heartbeat. Kris barely blinks at the night before Adam's teeth close neatly and indisputably at his neck and carry him back inside. This time Kris gets a telling shake before being set down. The message is clear.

Yet it's one of the most confusing moments of Kris' life.

Adam never tells Kris no, at least never about anything serious. He may nip if there's too much squirming during grooming (Adam really likes grooming, for whatever reason) or put a hard paw pinning Kris' back to show that no, playtime is over, slow down and _sleep_ already, but that's nothing. Kris understands that. This...this makes no sense at all.

He makes another tentative motion towards the exit; Adam headbutts him backwards immediately. The truth of the matter rises horribly into view.

Kris is not going to hunt.

Because Adam won't let him.

So, really, the sulking? Completely appropriate.

  
**xXx xXx**   


Not sleeping with Adam is _weird_.

Lil's fur is soft and warm and very, very nice, but it makes something inside Kris' skin itch uncomfortably. He can't help twisting and fussing, upsetting the side he's nestled by. Even Allison, who sleeps like a dead oak, wuffles distressingly at his fidgeting. It makes Kris feel guilty, which makes him more tired, which makes him guilty and tired and cold somehow in the pit of his belly. He wakes up too early and so pointedly unhappy it's like being sick.

(Kris remembers sick.

Archie was the one who found the dead crow, but Archie always shares. They tore apart the feathers, and then crunched the bones, and then lost the skull, and then spent two days with moaning bellies and bloody shit matting their fur. Kris threw up everything everywhere and he'd been so _thirsty_. Even when carried directly to the stream it'd been a challenge to drink; he'd nearly given up after the first few, impossible swallows. But Adam made him stay, made him take water and later meat, soft and still warm-wet from Adam's own mouth. He'd licked Kris' awful, filthy fur clean; he drove back any inquiring nose venturing too close; he was safety and warmth and the unshakable promise that everything would be okay.

But then he was always that, to Kris.)

  
**xXx xXx**   


Everybody knows about Kris' bone.

It started life as an elk leg, graduating to hunt trophy and, most importantly, Best Gift in the World (from Adam because, well, duh.) The meat's long gone and the marrow's all since evaporated, but it's still thick and dense, and sturdy enough to please. There's no part of it that Kris hasn't lovingly gnawed ten times over. Technically it's communal property like any other stray treat but, hey, once upon time so was Kris and everybody knows how _that_ ended. Point is, sharing is caring but ultimately Kris' bone is Kris' bone and nobody interferes. (Not even Saver and he'd chew a mountain if he figured out a way to stretch his jaw far enough.)

Kris _loves_ his bone. He doesn't care that it's whittled down to a stump or that it smells more of dirt than elk, or that even the younger pups don't bother noticing it. It's _his_ bone, his special, wonderful bone, and it's great.

That doesn't stop him from losing it.

Oh, he found it again soon after—by the loamy roots, near the old clearing—and there weren't any upsets in the process. Adam had laughed at the "reunion", licking Kris' ears teasingly when he dragged the silly thing into the corner to sleep with them, but that'd been the extent of the drama. Kris hadn't even felt particularly guilty at forgetting it in the first place.

Because the truth of the matter is that he knows it'll happen again. He'll get distracted or impatient or sleepy and trot off without securing it. Maybe he'll remember and track it back down, or maybe he'll remember too little, too late and won't, or maybe he just won't bother and quit the affection entirely. Because, yes, Kris loves his bone to the core but he _doesn't need it_.

The idea had never scared him.

Until now.

  
**xXx xXx**   


There's no hunting the next night. With meat aplenty from the previous success, Simon votes to stay in their clearing to rest. Dusk finds the pack lolling about, lazy and pleased. They dig up some of the buried meat for dinner.

Kris drags himself to the unearthed food with reluctance. He'd barely go at all if not for Allison nipping his heels all the way to the site. She growls whenever he slows and tackles whenever he tries to look back. She wants to know why he's upset. She wants to know why he won't rush to the good, sweet meat. She wants to race, to share and celebrate, to play. Her happiness makes Kris' own gloom feel mean and spiteful.

It's all so very, very unfair.

Kris _wants_ to celebrate. He wants to pounce and twist, and chase Allison till they're both too dizzy to turn, he wants to doze in his special mossy place by the den's door with his back near Adam's flank, he wants everything to be okay again.

He's so lost in the wanting that he doesn't even realize when the memory of fur and scent changes to the reality of Adam's muzzle at his cheek and the cripplingly sweet scent of deer. He dumps the chunk at Kris' feet, tail barely moving but eyes expectant. It's a good piece: a juicy hunk of muscle with a strip of mouthwatering skin still attached.

As far as apologies go, it's darn tempting.

In fact for a moment Kris wants nothing more than to take the peace offering. He doesn't want to be mad at Adam. It makes his stomach cold and his tail limp, it curdles his tongue. Being pack has always began with Adam. He's the one who took care of Kris when others barely noticed enough to avoid stepping on him, he's the one who the kept the bigger, stronger pups at bay to spare him the rougher games, he's the who always, _always_ , thinks of Kris' safety first.

On the other side of the gift, Adam's tail wags hopefully. Kris knows, with the same certainty he feels towards the sun rising and the moon shrinking, that Adam would protect him forever if he could.

And that's exactly why Kris turns around and drudges back to the den—alone.

  
**xXx xXx**   


The growling wakes him up.

Kris blinks at the fuzzy dimness of the den, lulled by the press of warm bodies and peaceful breathing. It's not quite night but it's a lot—grayer than usual. Something, Kris realizes, is profoundly incorrect.

Another grunt of thunder rolls through the den and Kris' ears shoot up. He pounces to his fee—ignoring the grumbling of drowsy neighbors—and looks around the cave. It's the packed full; none of the wolves like rain and what's happening outside is more than water. It's a true storm, angry and harsh; Kris shivers at just the sound of it.

Then his eyes find what's wrong and the shiver curls low and painful in his belly.

 _Where's Adam?_

Kris darts to and fro, his eyes trying to disprove his nose: Adam isn't in the den, isn't anywhere among the sleepy piles of fur. And that—that's wrong. Adam _**hates**_ storms. He's absolutely weird like that, splashing happily through any river but panicking at the tiniest prick of rain. Or that he'll readily keep a bear at bay, but whenever the clouds pull in, hides in the farthest, driest corner of the den. Usually with Kris tucked in for company. Kris never complains; storms bother him only a little, but waiting out the noise and wet under Adam's warm bulk is never a hardship. He wedges into the snug nook between Adam's neck and folded paws, and licks his muzzle when the lightning rips. They can stay like that forever, one compact, tender ball of fur.

But now Adam is missing and Kris' chest is full of fear.

A gentle tongue scrapes his ear. Lil's scent is familiar and kindly, her nudges a soothing effort to get him back down to rest. Kris whines at the attempt and bumps his head against her legs, stiff-necked. Because, hello, Adam! Missing! He doesn't surrender, not even when she nips his ear and tries to catch him by the scruff. At that point he's made enough of a fuss to rouse others; Matt tilts his shaggy head in question, Anoop _huffs_ , and one of Megan's pups struggles upright to investigate the fuss. But they're only curious, not actually worried and thus useless to Kris. Wiggling away from Lil's concern, he heads for the exit.

Simon bars his way.

Suddenly, it's like the terrible evening before the hunt all over again. Simon isn't the largest wolf—Adam is nearly his size and still growing—but as a pack leader he's undisputed. In Kris' mind he's always been a mountain. The serious, impatient eyes peer down with open disapproval. Kris' tail wants to hide under his stomach; his ears are flat as leaves.

Adam, in Simon's opinion, is fine. The storm came suddenly, it probably caught him unaware like it did them all. The woods are filled with places for a wolf to shelter in, especially from something as minor as some cold spit and loud barking. A blooded yearling does not need to be rescued from the weather—especially not by an overzealous pup who's more likely to drown in a ditch than actually catch Adam's scent.

Kris presses his paws and head to the dirt, repentant. Simon deigns to rub his chin over Kris' ear, satisfied with his point being made. The matter settled, they can now—

—and whatever further wisdom he delivers is lost as Kris springs forward with all the power of his back legs, shooting underneath Simon into the wet, wet freedom outside.

 ****

  
**xXx xXx**   


Logically, Kris knows this is a Bad Idea.

Simon is probably right: Adam found a hole a to sit out the storm and is certainly squatting there now, cozy and safe and not all thinking of stupid, weak foxes trudging blindly through sucking mud and biting rain. If he did think of such a thing, he'd probably laugh himself inside out.

Kris is weak. He's weak and small and so, so stupid, thinking he could actually find a workable scent trail when the forest is a damn lake. The only thing he can properly smell is mud and his own dank coat. Forget about being pack, he's going to be a fish after this because _he will never be dry again_.

He heads for the clearing; it's the last place he saw Adam, after all. The memory is sour, but Kris has no other lead to bite. At the very least there's a chance he can trace Adam's scent from there or maybe get an inspiration about where the wolf would go. Somewhere quiet, he thinks. Usually, Adam's afterglow from a good meal is a good nap. Of course, _usually_ Kris is nestled in with him.

Instead Kris tumbles down the hillock, half sliding and half soaring, grass slicker than ice beneath him. He crashes into a mush of twigs and dirt and mulch, and lays stunned. His lungs pump furiously, finally remembering their work, and there's mud in his eye. The idea of being back in the den, dry and cozy and whole, is beautiful.

Aching, he rolls back on all fours and limps free of the muck pit. It takes three tries to sneeze the worst of the mud out of his nose. But he does, shivering, and then lowers his face to ground and continues.

A thousand beautiful ideas can't compare to one true feeling.

  
**xXx xXx**   


There's no trace of Adam at the clearing. Kris pulls a final sniff of the drowned area, before sitting back on his haunches to think. And shiver. And _drip_. Rain runs down his muzzle in a steady, freezing line. Pound for pound it's the most miserable he's felt since, well, since the first time.

Since meeting Adam.

Kris doesn't have a lot of very clear memories of that first night. He remembers home—his family's home, Mama and the others, small, squishy, smaller than him even—and he remembers screaming, and he remembers the rank, deep stink of bear, and he remembers running, running till his lungs popped. What he remembers after that is a blurry soup of being afraid and cold, and dangling feebly by the scruff of his neck, and of the first, feral smell of _other_ , of wolf, and the scent of honeysuckle, and of tiny, sharp teeth pinching his legs and tail, and something hitting his head, and then, and then—

And then there was Adam.

That's how Kris remembers it: he was hurt and cold and hungry and alone, and then Adam found him and he wasn't any of those things. Because he had Adam.

Kris can't remember ever being actually scared of Adam. He must've been at one point, obviously, because he remembers being scared of everything else. Of how everyone was bigger, or how the den smelled, of the howling, of the rough wind that yowled outside, of the other strong pups. It makes sense that he'd be scared of Adam; Adam was the oldest pup then, the biggest and the undisputed leader of the bunch. Nobody protested when he stole the newest "toy" for himself to have the first bite, not even when days passed and he refused to hand it—Kris—back. There's a faded memory of someone—Danny?—complaining about sharing meat with the outsider, the chewtoy, but its echoed by Adam's answering growl and the fact that Kris doesn't remember anyone ever taking his food away. Everything was strange then, Kris thinks, but somehow it was easier too. He was lost and weak, and _needed_ Adam to protect him. Now, he's—okay, Kris is still small but he's faster and smarter and what needs Adam for isn't protection, it's...it's...well, it's not protection. He justs needs him to be Adam. With him, Kris.

For a moment, Kris desperately wishes he could simply shut his eyes and go back to...back to...to...

Raindrops hit the ground in double, Kris' head shooting up so fast his body shakes nose to tail. His frozen paws beat the runny earth, splashing mud into his own ear, but he's moving. He's got a target, he can run all night. Or swim, if he has to.

Still, inspiration could've arrived before he fell down the hill.

  
**xXx xXx**   


Kris first thought is he got wrong. Because the place is small. The shelter in his mind looms dark and wide, not...slopped and weedy, the den's lip a crumbled hollow. Even this close, he can barely smell the trampled honeysuckle. This can't be the place, he must've gotten lost or turned around, or...

...or grew up.

It's a very odd thing, to meet yourself when you least expect it. Kris doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about where his time goes. He has a pack that loves him, friends to chase and catch, a forest of good smell. He eats and sleeps, and plays, and watches the sun go and the moon come, and the leaves fall down and the grass change. That his paws are bigger or his nose smarter isn't a revelation; it's just new means of keeping up with his own life. He doesn't think of it as _changing_.

Except it is, of course.

And it's kind of—terrifying.

Thunder claps hard enough to shake; the moment breaks. Kris ducks his head and hurries inside the den. Smaller or not, it's still big enough to house a tired, wet fox and his doomed, sad mood. The idea of a semi-dry place to leak in peace is dazzling. Inside, out of the rain and the wind, Kris inevitably shivers ear to toe before collapsing into a puddle of fur and exhaustion. He is not moving for anything never ever ever ever agai—

A shadow peels off the deeper gloom of the den and suddenly Kris can move, can run, can jump, can _fly_. His body tries to do all that and more, crashing into Adam hard enough to snap necks. _Kris doesn't care_.

Adam, shouts the scent in his nose. Adam, yells the fur by his tongue. Adam, says the warmth and the weight and the sheer giant joy flooding Kris' every bone and vein and whisker. The happiness eclipses every drop and howl of the storm outside, it eclipses the world.

Adam's noses him everywhere, seeking proof that Kris survived the trip and didn't, like, lose an ear in the rain. Normally Kris would squirm free, but for the moment his own relief is staggering; he buries his nose in Adam's fur and _breathes_.

Never ever never again, he promises, eyes shut. Adam can't ever be—gone. Kris never wants to think such a thing again. It'd be like the moon falling down, or fish growing claws: _inconceivable_.

For his own part, Adam seems to agree—in principle if not target. He can't believe Kris ran out into the storm. Is he crazy? Is he insane? Is Simon a complete and utter blazing idiot for letting him out? Adam is going to ask, Adam is going to snap his tail off, Adam is—Adam is—

Adam is a complete and utter _bonehead_ with no room to whine, Kris reminds with a mouthful of wolf fur. He closes his jaw and shakes his head, pulling hard once, twice, before letting go. He ignores Adam's answering whine admirably. Kris is upset and drenched and they'll have a very, very serious exchange about acceptable levels of stupidity in murderous weather conditions.

But, later.

Now, Adam nibbles the sticky mud on Kris' paws, freeing his toes, and rubs his face over and over Kris' ears. It feels _awesome_ , and Kris spine wants to curl in pleasure. He settles for burrowing further into the sweet softness of Adam's neck. Slowly, the bitter chill seeps out of his skin to make room for the familiar security of a firm, safe flank by his rib, the blanketing heaviness kneading his back, the glowing affection of warm breath at his ear, and, finally, sleep.

  
**xXx xXx**   


Kris wakes up with his head tucked into his tail and the rest of him folded securely into a whole lot of wolf. Contentment hugs his heart. Outside he can hear the cheery sounds of birds and breezes, the storm having cleaned the world. For a moment nothing is more tempting than curling back down into the warmth and letting the rest of the day pass by.

He's kind of hungry, though.

Adam is a trial in the mornings, even for a wolf. Kris has both paws propped against the wolf's side before one eye—finally!—drags open. The expression within is not pleased. Kris licks the length of Adam's muzzle extra cheerfully in response (and revenge.) Midway through a particularly wet stroke, Adam rolls over—onto Kris.

It's not a very sincere suffocation; Adam barely covers him halfway, careful to not lay down too much pressure on Kris' smaller frame. At worse, it's like being buried by warm snow. _Laughing_ snow, Kris notes, feeling Adam's rumbled huff vibrate through. He nips whatever he can in retaliation. Adam proceeds to _wiggle_.

Eventually, half squashed and panting, Kris squeezes free and tries to shake his fur into place. Halfway through the grooming a familiar tongue coasts down his back, smoothing the rumples. Generously—because _Kris_ is the bigger one here, _emotionally_ , thankyou _very_ much—he lets Adam rub the ruffs and tangles into order. When he starts in on a second combing of the tail, though, Kris spins away. Adam can spend all day on Kris' tail unless stopped, and the sunshine outside is too appetizing to waste on grooming.

Predictably Adam disagrees but rises to follow Kris', anyway.

Everything smells good after a rain. The heavy soil, the shining leaves, the beetles and fattened brooks, the logs and weeds. Kris fights not to jumps head over heels from the heady perfume of a world made fresh and open before him. Besides he doesn't want to tumble down a hill again.

Adam huffs another laugh at that, the jerk, and completely fails to be cowed by Kris' righteous nab at his leg. Whatever, he's got ridiculously long legs anyway. He probably trips on them all the time, probably can't walk three steps without stepping on his own tail, probably can't run fast enough to catch an ant, probably can't even—

Growling, low and fake, Adam lunges. Kris darts forward, safely out of range, tail bright as flower behind him. He heads for the clearing fast as he can, which is pretty damn fast as even Simon could admit. Bushes and twigs crackle over and underneath him, Adam a sleeker thunder behind. He's nearly to the clearing when suddenly a heavy paw slaps him to the ground.

Cheater, Kris wants to yelp but Adam's nose nudges his meaningfully: quiet.

Listen.

At first there's nothing but Kris' own annoyance prickling at his neck—until his ears flip up, all attention zeroed on the tell-tale scrunching of grass half a throw away. A dry whisper, a soft rustle and...munching. The actual scent of the rabbit nearly pales in comparison. Kris instinctively levels out in the high grass, and then pauses.

He darts a glance at Adam.

Who is...watching him. Slow and serious, like there's a judgment in the making. It's not a look Kris is used to getting from Adam, it's not a look he's ever gotten from Adam. Instead, it's similar to the expression Simon sometimes wears when inspecting the yearlings or the other wolves out on...a...a...

 _Oh._

Happiness trills up Kris' spine; he flattens further against the ground to suppress it. The impact of what's happening is—is impactful. He can't help peeking up again to make sure. If Adam is bluffing or if Kris misunderstood...

A heavy muzzle butts his own, turning Kris' head back to task. The message is clear: pay attention.

Kris does. He pays attention to everything: the murmuring grass, the direction of the wind, the faint musk of rabbit, the scratch of grit under his tummy, the sunny pressure on his back, his breathing, Adam's breathing. Kris collects every bit of the moment happening around him. He wants to remember every inch and scent, and he will. He'll remember this forever.

It's his first hunt, after all.

  
**xXx xXx**   


That night, Kris gums his bone with utter serenity.

It's a new bone, a rabbit hip that won't last beyond two sunsets, but it's tasty smelling and still housing some marrow; there's plenty of good gnawing potential. Kris looks forward to cracking open the knobby head. He'll lick and gnaw and crunch, and eventually abandon the splintered remains without a second thought. And _then_ he'll find the old bone, _his_ bone, and worry it happily. In time, of course, that bone will be gone too. Maybe he'll miss it, but...

There'll be others.

Rabbit bones and mice bones and sparrow bones, and larger bones, one that are too big for Kris to get on his own. Deer and elk and—beaver, maybe? Though Kris could probably manage a beaver, or at least with a little help from Allison. The idea of needing help doesn't upset him; it's natural. Pack helps pack. Kris will never bring down a moose but he can help track one or hide the meat for future meals. He can find a new den for when the next litter comes, and he can guard those pups when they do; he can clean the sick, and he can add warmth to a wet, cold night.

Kris feels it now, his place in the pack; small and narrow but undeniably _his_. The certainty glows inside him, better than a feast or a cool drink, better than anything!

Next to him, Adam lifts his great head to sluggishly nuzzle Kris' ear before dropping back down into sleep.

Well, Kris decides, _almost_ anything.

  
**xXx xXx**   


  


  
**xXx xXx**   


**AN:** Fox'ies stolen from [here](http://www.anikaos.com/).


End file.
